


In the Garden

by Tipsyrainbow



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Garden of Eden references, M/M, One Shot, Parent/Child Incest, thrandolas - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 09:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsyrainbow/pseuds/Tipsyrainbow
Summary: “And you have removed this temptation 
  
  That's troubled my innocent child
  
  To abduct and abuse and to render, bereft, and defiled”
  
  -The Queen’s Rebuke





	

**Author's Note:**

> A short Thrandolas fic based on the idea people had back when kings and queens were common, that kings were connected to the country. That's if the king was sick or had done something vile, nature would suffer with their lord.

Above the forest and grass beds of _Eryn Galen_ among the canopy of leaves and bark, the trees whisper. The forest knows secrets and passes from vine to branch its vast knowlege. Under cedar and oak, they keep their secrets hidden. Amongst the shadows of depravity and decades, under dirt and bones, the trees speak. One must simply learn to listen. 

~*~*~

Darkness falls over the woodland realm like a shroud. Every tree is harsh and cold, winding far above the dying dirt with reaching withered claws. Below the darkened sky is suffocating, a sickness that seeps from the bark thick with the unknown. Elves whisper amongst the trees, for the royal halls are no place for secrets. All know and claim the disease would be from the embodiment of their own forest. 

_The King, the King, o what ails our King?_

~*~*~

The King’s Orchard, the only greenery left untouched by darkness it seems. A useless notion, for where sickness is born, it is also spread. 

“ _Adar._ ” Legolas announces his approach as he enters the garden. They are alone, still he uses the formal term cautiously. Carefully, he brushes past the flowers as to not harm such a rarity in these times. His father’s features are placid amongst the growth, sprawled languidly across a wooden bench. He peers through hooded lids at his son’s approach. He shifts, making room for Legolas should he wish to sit. He accepts the offer, it would be rude to refuse the King. 

“What has brought you here, _iôn-nín?_ ” Thranduil stretches himself like a cat enjoying the warmth of the sunlight. Legolas absently rubs a nosy flower petal between his fingers, watching his father intently. 

“The orchard is always at peace, _Adar._ ” He pauses to study the dark, silken blossom. Carnation, if he could recall. “Our wood outside of these halls are ill. Why is that so?” As if the fact itself isn’t known. 

"I cannot tell you what I do not know, _Penneth._ " Thranduil bows his head forward in sincerity. His gaze follows Legolas' fingers, and to the scarlet petals delicately in hand. "Flowers have a language of their own. Carnations of such a dark color may speak of a deep love and affection.” He takes a moment to shift himself closer to his son to examine the blossom, and so that their bodies touch. His hair falls onto Legolas’ shoulder like liquid silver. 

"You understand the language of flowers?" Legolas turns to face his father, an intimate gesture. So close, the tips of their noses nearly brush at the motion. Something darkens in Thranduil's eyes.

"As I know the stars in the sky, _iôn-nín._ " He cups his hand over the Carnation in a careful motion, curling Legolas' pale fingers over the blossom. Legolas furrows his brows at the gesture, but says nothing. Their closeness leaves his mind working improperly, and words will not part him. When his father's lips brush against his lightly, his eyes widen and yet his body complies. Thranduil moves his hand from atop his own to his cheek, brushing a stray blonde tress aside in silence. He cups his son's jaw in a gentle caress, rubbing his thumb over the warmed skin. Legolas doesn't dare move, despite the heaviness of his own breath and mixed confusion in his eyes. All sense is lost when his father's lips draw his own into a quickly spiraling kiss. 

A useless notion to think that even this garden would be devoid of disease. It holds the most vile secret of all, and in due time will also rot. From the smallest blade of grass to the highest treetop and brightest flower, no magic nor salvation could rescue the heart of the garden, the King’s Orchard from madness. Secrets do linger, while quieter the whisper, they begin to listen.

~*~*~

“ _Mirkwood._ ” The men call it. The title remains, without much effort. Greenwood is a name all but forgotten. The wood grows blacker thicker, spiders claiming the depths as their homes. Though, the King does not appear distressed as many suspect. 

_It must be from the inside, then._

They chatter amongst the dying branches. Some suggest he mourns in silence for their long dead queen, and only now have the effects taken their tolls. Others claim much viler, their king must have angered the Valar. But what has he done? 

_O King of Mirkwood, what have you caused this illness in our forest?_

~*~*~

He returns to the garden every morning following. After a time it doesn't seem so wrong, yet they know to only to act secretly in the privacy of their garden. No one would dare follow their King and heir to such a precious place. Especially after the darkness fell, none would tread near without permission. 

" _Ada..._ " Legolas says in a small state of contentment, as if he is to be heard by any other. Thranduil's hands continue stroking his son's pale silken hair, brushing it between his fingers. Weaving and unweaving the hair into braids on the same wooden bench, this time Legolas sits upon the grassy earth between his father's legs.

"Yes, _iôn-nín?_ " Thranduil hums in response, brushing a finger delicately along his son's temple. Legolas leans into the touch contently.

"Are we - is this wrong of us?" His voice is small, and he suddenly feels like an elfling again. His father's hands still, fingers mid-brush. 

"It is not right, you know that, _Penneth._ I fear what may happen should we be discovered, and what may be suspected already." Thranduil admits what they are both already aware of. Legolas nods, leaning back against his father for support. Thranduil bends forward, pressing a soft kiss onto the back of his hair. 

" _Ada?_ " Legolas whispers, staring into the expanse of the morning sky. 

"Yes, Legolas?" Thranduil murmurs into the silken locks. 

" _Ci bain sui i Anor, gin melin._ "

~*~*~

The trees know things. Things that may never be suspected from the naked eye. They whisper, and eventually someone listens. Nothing is ever as it appears, and that may not be the cause of the rot. Conjoined blood seeped into dirt and dust, of kin. In darkened times, it may be the only thing left in the wake of madness. Is there a fault in reaching out for any solace, despite the consequences? 

 

_Eryn Galen - Greenwood_  
_Adar - Father (formal)_  
_Ada - Father (informal)_  
_Penneth - Young one_  
_Iôn-nín - My son_  
_Ci bain sui i Anor, gin melin - You are beautiful as the sun, I love you_


End file.
